


Laundry Date

by staniel (bearsquares)



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 90s losers club, AU, Accidental Stimulation, Awkward Boners, F/M, Internal Monologue, Multi, References to Depression, Short One Shot, Unresolved Sexual Tension, implied poly losers club, references to psychiatric drugs, stanverly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 11:52:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18180260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearsquares/pseuds/staniel
Summary: The summer of '95 is a hot one and Stan is all out of quarters.





	Laundry Date

**Author's Note:**

> This got cut from a longer work a while back and I still like it so I'm dusting it off.
> 
> Post HS 90's AU. It's okay to be sad and horny.

 

 

Back at the Washateria.

Stan hadn't thought about the place in months but there he stood on the sidewalk, hands in his quarterless pockets, staring up at the faded sign. His eyes crossed and uncrossed, vision focused then blurred like he was trying to see a pattern in a magic eye puzzle. Patterns may or may not have been what he was looking for but a puzzle it was. Most of the summer was shot, wasted wandering the streets of Derry like a doped up lab rat (the heat could make you all kinds of fucked up with the right medication) and what was at the center of his little maze? Self-discovery? Mild contentment? Cheese?

No, today the goal was the only laundromat in town and there in its harshly lit center was Beverly.

His good friend Beverly.

She was curled up in a plastic scoop chair with a magazine, seeming more concerned with keeping her legs up on the seat than the “idea home of the year”. Her legs were bare — denim cut-offs ridden tight up to her crotch. God, how could girls stand it? But if she was alright with it, he wouldn't complain. He would keep his mouth shut and watch with utter shame as her denim shorts shrunk tighter over the mound between her legs like Saran Wrap.

 _I should go in there_ , Stan thought.

She looked bored, after all. He thought himself dull — no more fun than cleaning a lint trap — but it would be rude of him to pretend he didn't see her. Stanley Uris was many things, but he wasn't rude.

Brisk (albeit musty) cool air blasted his face when he heaved the door open. A brass bell jingled overhead and he felt weirdly self-conscious for a moment. _Here comes an idiot with no laundry to do. Check me out!_ But the attendant didn't look up. Nobody looked up. Except for Bev.

“Stan?”

He shivered, hoping it was because of the air conditioning. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself!” She closed the magazine and returned it to the rack next to her chair. “What brings you to the house that Tide built?”

He felt a strange urge to tell Richie to eat shit. The two of them behaved like twins sometimes and it drove Stan nuts. But he smiled — the polite one he could pull at any point, any situation. “Just passing by.” She hummed and patted the seat next to her. He sat and went rigid at the unexpected chill against his ass and thighs. “I thought you had a washing machine at home.”

Beverly hugged one of her legs to her chest, still struggling to sit normally.  “It’s busted. Auntie’s tired of wearing the same three shirts. Says she feels like a cartoon character.”

“Don't we all.”

Something about the way she smiled and looked away made his stomach feel floaty. “How’ve you been, Stan?”

What a strange question to ask a dear friend. How long had it been since he'd seen her? The uncertainty had him tensed tighter than the freezing chair. It was difficult to be certain of anything the way he had been feeling. “Alright. Nothing unusual.”

Stan realized too late that he had been sitting with his hands on his knees. It made him look like an old man — nervous, embarrassing habit.

“Your hair looks really good today.”

“Small miracle in this humidity.” He noticed her fond smile and remembered she was actually serious about these things. With the guys it was always “hey, beautiful” when he’d slept on it wet or “nice hair” after one of them (usually Bill or Richie) fucked it up with a powerful tousling. But they were guys; they got their rocks off hazing each other sometimes. Not Bev, though. She operated on pure sincerity, even in their funny group.  “Thanks. You look, uh—”

“Sweaty?”

Stan hesitated, blinking like a startled bird. “Pretty. And sweaty, yes.” Beverly laughed. It always turned into the worst type of flirting with her — the type where he had absolutely no control over himself. “Well.” He cleared his throat. Hands were back on the knees. _Damnit._

One of the washing machines buzzed, startling them both.

Beverly sat up a little, peeking over the rows of washers. “I think that’s me.”

How she could tell exactly which machine had just screeched at them was a mystery. Hell, he was much taller than her but he could barely tell which machines were even in use. This mild outrage fizzled out when she stood up and yanked her shorts back down out of her asscrack. It was hilarious in theory but Stan was now staring at her ass proper — and her thighs. There were red marks where her bare skin had flattened against the plastic chair. _Bright red_ , he thought. _Like she just got spanked_. His heartbeat went savage at the thought, pounding hot blood through his body: his cheeks, the back of his neck, his already compromised crotch.

“Got any wild and crazy plans this afternoon?”

Beverly was waiting for him at the corner of the first row, an empty plastic laundry basket balanced on her hip. Had Richie been present, he would have come up with some kind of irritating rhyme about _Stan the Man with a plan_ and, having a plan indeed, he would stuff his shameful thoughts away while stuffing a dryer sheet down Richie’s throat.

God, he missed him.

“Not anymore. I mean, no.”

“I don’t either, most of the time. Dog days, right? Kinda feel like a dog,” Beverly sighed out.

“Yeah, me too.”

A real dog he was, watching her half-disappeared into the washing machine, obediently placing each wad of wet laundry she handed him into the basket. There had been several opportunities to offer his help with fishing the laundry out of the gaping tub but it seemed he had slept on all of them. Now, he observed with a little self-loathing, she had one leg in the air and a cold slab of metal pressing the air out of her lungs.

When she finally wriggled back out of the washer's mouth there was a mess of elastics jumbled up in her hand. She dropped the lid shut with a dismayed whine. “Crap — I hate it when they do this.”

Two of her bras had spun together, twined like lovers. She began yanking on the twisted straps. Stan thought it was kind of cute but she was indeed doing it wrong and it was provoking his good housekeeping instincts. _Stan Uris: Fifties Housewife at your service._

“Are you sure that won’t stretch them out?”

“The knot looks pretty loose, it should—”

One of the bras sprung free. They watched it whip sideways through the air in cinematic slow motion. It landed on the back of the machine, straddling the button panel, taunting them as it began to slide over the edge.

“I’ve got it."

Without thinking, Stan braced one hand next to Beverly’s and reached out with the other. He heard a little squeak and realized two beats later that it was _Beverly_ who made the squeak. The wet bra flopped down into the void behind the machine. Stan didn't notice. He was gaping down at himself, mortified, because he had squashed poor Bevvie against the front of the machine. Even worse, he had done so in such a way that the top swells of her breasts were straining against the neckline of her t-shirt.

Richie, who had absolutely never seen Bev topless, often described her tits as “the perkiest lil' cupcakes you've ever seen”. Eddie, who most likely had caught a glimpse or two over the years, always blushed hotly and told him to shut up. What was wrong with them? They never speculated about Mike’s ass or the size of Bill’s dick. But why would they do that? The guys had all seen each other naked.

_Shit. What if he’s right?_

Now Stan had the beginning of a hard-on shoved against her lower back and, dear god, how inappropriate for a laundromat. That did it.

“Sorry,” he muttered and backed off.

Beverly slowly turned to face him, wide-eyed and flushed in the face.

This deal should have been funny, maybe exciting - and it would have been in a romcom or something — but he and Bev both looked ready to run screaming out of the Washateria like they were being chased by hornets.

They had kicked the proverbial hornet’s nest in a way. At least, Stan had.

His voice wavered. “I should leave you to it, then.”

“Yeah, no prob,” she said. “It’s totally boring here, right? I’ll see ya later.”

He had his own farewell ready to go but the processes in his brain ground to a halt. _Now you wait just a goddamn minute, Uris!_ He wasn’t mentally kicking himself, it was more of a curb-stomping. _Do NOT run away! Suck it the fuck up and help your friend_ — _your_ dear _friend_ — _carry her laundry! You can jack off or whatever later, this is more important than your awkward sex drive!_ He, or whatever that was, was right.

“Actually, you have a lot there. Can I help you carry it when you’re done?”

Her face brightened up for a moment and he started to backslide into unwelcome thoughts of kissing her cheeks and her mouth and the tip of her nose. “That would eat up your afternoon, though.”

He smiled. “I want to.”

Bev swallowed and furrowed her brows. “If you’re sure.” She finally looked up at him and he was certain her eyes were the same color as his that day. She smiled back, seeming to relax. “Alright, don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

“Wanna go halfsies on that issue of Highlights for Kids up front?”

“Boy, do I ever!”

They were friends — good friends. And he was glad for that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ohhh hi, I like drawing Stan and rarepairs. If you're into that, my art blog is here: https://chilidogpaella.tumblr.com/tagged/Owesies


End file.
